


Sherlocked

by Candamira, sylvaticginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Collar, Dom/sub, M/M, Ownership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4150893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvaticginger/pseuds/sylvaticginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cares for you, that much is obvious. Still, you never dared to hope for more. You never thought he was able to <i>feel</i> more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlocked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nia_Kantorka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_Kantorka/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Such a Good Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398684) by [Nia_Kantorka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_Kantorka/pseuds/Nia_Kantorka), [sylvaticginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvaticginger/pseuds/sylvaticginger). 



> Happy birthday, darling Nia! I hope this homage to _Such A Good Boy_ will be the delightful surprise I want it to be :-). Have a wonderful day! ♥♥♥
> 
> Sylvaticginger, I'm honoured to have you at my side here. Your vision of John and Sherlock is mesmerising! Thank you so much for joining me and creating the art for this remix! 
> 
> A million thanks to my fabulous betas gracerene and iwao. Their comments and thoughts were incredibly helpful. Lovelies, I had a blast working on this with you – thanks for your time and effort!
> 
> Sherlock Holmes characters are the property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

"My brave soldier."

Those three words. Given in your owner's unemotional voice, yet so full of feeling. He is home, finally. His Belstaff Milford still carries the cold of an early winter evening, and the light sheen of the London drizzle glints on his shoulders. His shoulders... You adore their strong, broad outline beneath the dark cloth, and all you want to do is get out of your stiff uniform and run your fingers over the wool covering them. But you keep your position of attention, because acting only on command is what being a soldier is about.

Eventually, he'll grant you some relief. "Stand at ease." 

At ease. As if you could be at ease as long as you are not allowed to touch him. But he is not your owner for nothing – he knows that you thrive on the challenge of being led into temptation and having to _resist_. Oh, yes, it's been hard to learn this about yourself, to admit to yourself that obeying is your heart's desire. Once, you were eager to rise in the ranks and become commander yourself. But you have changed. Your whole life has changed since you met him. 

Being called to stand at ease is often accompanied by an affectionate gaze. That specific moment is always the most precious to you. Because for a split second his pale, grey-green eyes show that you are his like he is yours. Usually, while you are _on duty_ , his eyes inspect you in that analytical, detached way he looks at pieces of evidence, and his face doesn't give away what he is thinking or feeling. He wants you to focus, focus on him completely. 

So, that's what you do. Nothing else exists when all your senses are tuned in to him. Then you can read the slightest hints, the hidden signs. Time slows down, and not the tiniest twitch of his hand or almost imperceptible blink of his eye escapes your alertness. You love this game; it makes you feel _alive_ , it anchors you in the moment.

Sometimes, though, you are too eager, and act on cues you only imagined. Or you don't act at all, because you are not sure if you only imagined things in your impatience. When you realise your mistake, it hits you in the gut like machine-gun fire. Hot, painful pangs of fear make you want to cringe and clutch your stomach. You know that nothing bores him like ineptitude. And he gets bored so easily. So quickly.

You'd do anything to draw his interest again. Anything to earn his respect. Things you thought you'd never do, you did them and you'd do them again, any time, any moment. For him – and for yourself. You are _his_ soldier, and you need to obey.

[****locked]

Today, your owner seems to be in a good mood. He has hung his coat on the hook behind the door, and the slim-cut jacket of his grey suit is unbuttoned. No creases mar his forehead, no fidgeting of the pale and slender fingers resting on the arms of his favourite armchair. This is the closest to a relaxed pose he is able to get. The polish of his black oxfords shimmers in the light of the fire, as does the mysterious black box sitting on his lap. Whatever it contains, it must be of importance – spatters of rain and dirt on your master's shoes and trouser legs tell you he must have walked for a while in the ugly weather. He wouldn't risk his immaculate appearance for something trivial. 

He looks at you, observing your reaction. 

A test. A shiver runs down your spine and you shudder. You must not ruin this with your eagerness. Your eyes flutter shut, you breath and you exhale, and when you open them again, your gaze rests on the carpet. A blue pattern on a red background, familiar and calming.

Composed again, you search his eyes. Not revealing anything, they rest on you with uncharacteristic patience. He tilts his head a slight fraction and flickers a brow. You're allowed a closer inspection of the box, but first you have to undress. You bend down to start with your Loake boots, and you don't stop until all your clothes lay neatly folded in a stack beside your feet, topped by your beret. He wouldn't care if you just threw them over your shoulder; he is chaos incarnate. It's you who enjoys the anticipation that builds with each precise fold. It's what a soldier does – keep his things in good shape and order.

Naked, you walk toward him and the pillow on the floor, waiting for you beside the armchair at his feet. You go down on your knees, slowly and carefully so as not to hurt your bad leg, and raise your head.

Tiny drops of rain cling to his tousled auburn locks. You wish to touch him, to brush the strands out of his face and place a kiss on his lips. You bet they are still moist and cool from his walk through the fresh evening air.

He nods.

You shuffle closer and put your head on his thighs. His hand rakes through your hair and rests at your nape. He's not the type to show affection casually, when he does, it's always for a reason. You dash a glance at the box before you melt against him. His body heat radiates through the fine cloth of his suit, and you're glad for this sign of humanity. Sometimes he is pure intelligence – mind only – but you like days like today best, when he seems thoroughly grounded in his body.

His unusual approachability has a relaxing effect on you. The box can wait. It will reveal its secret soon enough, and you know you can't rush these things. Until then you want to savour every second of his affinity. His fingers play with the short hair at your nape, warm and gentle, and anticipation rises in your belly and spreads to your groin.

His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you until you look up into his face.

He smiles fondly at you and your breath quickens.

"You are my brave soldier, aren’t you?"

You answer. When a soldier is asked a question, he answers. Though you hate invading the fragile mood with the precise, sharp answer in the military style he expects.

"Yes, sir." Your rough voice is so different from his silken whisper.

His right hand reaches for the box, while the other still holds your head and forces you to look at him.

"Do you want to know what’s in the box?"

You would love to lean into him, to nuzzle his hand. But you hold still, your eyes don't leave his. You don't dare to flicker a glance at the black parcel.

"Yes, sir. I want to know what's in the box, sir."

He smiles. His smiles are rare and precious, and you don't even blink so as not to miss a second. Sometimes being a doctor gives you a small advantage on him. It's natural for you to notice the rising tension in his posture, the slight flush creeping up from his neck and the dilating of his pupils. You draw a sharp breath. He is aroused. As much as you are. He might not be a very emotional man, and he likes to keep his mysterious aura, but his body is unable to hold back information. And you have perfected the art of reading the signs with time.

"Yes. I thought so."

He flips the lid open, you hear the rustle of tissue paper, and he turns the box for you to look inside at… a broad, dark brown leather collar. It's elegant and beautiful, its simplicity only adorned with a heavy silver ring and matching clasp. An embossed phrase runs along the band of leather: _I am Sherlocked._

You swallow hard.

You've been collared before, in a way. You are a soldier, and you still wear your identity discs, even after you left the hospital with a limp and the knowledge you'd never return to the front again. That silver chain has been a constant reminder of its meaning: You were a soldier, you had to obey and to fight. Whether you understood the reasons or not. 

A collar means commitment. Unconditional commitment. Which can only come with implicit trust or belief. 

You take in every detail of the collar, and you take your time because you need to think. You’ve been in love with your owner for some time now, and though you've never told him, you think you've made it clear by your actions. But he has been hard to read. He cares for you, that much is obvious. Still, you never dared to hope for more. You never thought he was able to _feel_ more.

Now you know.

He has laid himself bare for you with his gift. It's a piece of evidence. _I am Sherlocked._ He wants you to be his, only his. The design of the collar shows his feelings. It's broad and heavy, but the suede is of an exquisite quality, supple and rugged. The colour is perfectly chosen to match your hair and skin. Ring and clasp are heavy and sturdy, too, though of fine craftsmanship. This collar is handmade, made especially for you. It is made to last. 

It is his way of saying that he'll never get bored of you. 

Now that you think of it, this gift is very characteristic of him. He has such an intense personality, of course he wouldn't just give you a ring. No, Sherlock is never satisfied with what is good enough for everybody else. For him, it is always all or nothing. He wants _all_ of you. Your mind, your heart, your soul. Accepting the collar will mean giving consent to that all-consuming desire to _own_. 

You lift your gaze to meet his eyes. They are almost black with arousal, and his brows are raised. He wants an answer, though he never spoke a question. You understand. This is important and requires your full attention and tribute. You get up and stand to attention – as does your cock. Clicking your heels and giving a salute still comes naturally. 

"I am Sherlocked, sir."

A flicker of relief crosses his eyes. He doesn't smile, he is still too tense. You suppress a grin. This one time, all his brain power and deductive competence have not been enough to make him completely confident about the outcome of this experiment. Yet, he took the risk. This insight almost means more to you than the collar itself. With wobbly knees you sink down again on your pillow and bend your head. 

That's when you see the bulge rising in his trousers.

He picks up the collar and leans forward. Both his hands envelop your neck while he adjusts the length and closes the clasp with a soft click. His lips tickle your ear, his breath is a hot caress.

"Such a brave soldier."

  


His praise spurs on your already fervent desire. Goose bumps drift over your skin, more blood runs to your groin. The buckskin curves around your throat in a perfect fit. _I am Sherlocked._ You swallow, and the ring presses against your skin, a cold brush of metal. All the things he can use this ring for cross your mind in a blur. You look up at him and lick your lips. Your cock twitches, and from the way Sherlock's eyes darken further you can tell he noticed it, too.

He cups your jaw with one hand and brushes his thumb over your mouth. 

"Brave, so brave."

His forefinger leaves a heated trail on your skin when he runs it from your lips down to your throat. He hooks it into the ring and pulls.

[****locked]

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are ♥. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my work and would love to hear your thoughts :-). Thank you!


End file.
